The Michael Jackson freak fest on 20/20 last night (the whole thing can be summarized in three distasteful words: obsession with children) finished off with a segment on the Phil Spector murder case, which featured a lot on Phil – all of it old news, the guy hasn’t done jack in almost 25 years – but not much at all on the vicitm, who is the real story here.
Phil gets to live on beyond this, and with his history of rather public instability, he is pretty well set up to plead insanity. What other choice does he have? There aren’t any other suspects, the driver knows just the two of them were in the house, and everyone knows the vicious little prick shot her in the face – I’m guessing because she was on her way out the door and had threatened to reveal something embarrassing about him.
Here’s some weird trivia: my brother, who lives about halfway between LA and San Diego, and so doesn’t get into Hollywood much, went to a live radio broadcast of the Doors at the House of Blues last Friday morning. Lana Clarkson took their tickets – he says the 6′ tall shapely blonde stood out like a sore thumb amonst the aging hippies and Sunset Strip trash at the show. His girlfriend even talked to her – she was dead two days later.
The Ian Astbury-as-Jim Morrison Doors were really good, by the way, he said.